The Hospitality of Spies
by abrandnewboom
Summary: Alex is asked by MI6 to take Yassen Gregorovich in for a while. Afterall, what better place for an assassin to hide out than the home of the most notorious spy in the world? Yassen/Alex slash. PWP. Seriously, it's just pron.


**Title:** The Hospitality of Spies  
**Author:** abrandnewboom  
**Rating**: NC-17  
**Disclaimer**: Any mention of 'Stormbreaker', 'Alex Rider', any associated entites, or any copyrighted material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976, and is not intended to infringe upon any copyrighted material.  
**Pairing**: Yassen/Alex  
**Spoilers**: Not really spoiling at all. Set three years post Eagle Strike.  
**Wordcount**: 2319  
**Warnings**: Porn. Srsly. Porn. Nothing else here. Not even plot.  
**Summary**: Alex is asked by MI6 to take Yassen Gregorovich in for a while. Afterall, what better place for an assassin to hide out than the home of the most notorious spy in the world?  
**Author's Notes**: Firstly, thank you to themearas at LJ, who looked this over and put up with my bitching. 3 This is one of those abandoned porn scenes that I always plan to slot into a bigger fic somehow someday. This inevitably never happens.

**--**

"It's kind of you to extend the hand of friendship. Especially considering our past…misunderstandings." Gregorovich said blandly, following a step behind Alex Rider as they entered the boy's London home.

He took in his surroundings. Upmarket two story house, likely three bedrooms, no adjoining walls to surrounding buildings, no blind spots around the exterior – the windows had been planned or altered.

Ian Rider's doing, no doubt. The man had obviously left no stone unturned when it came to the care of his nephew. Too bad he hadn't excised such care in his own affairs.

Alex laughed, or at least his shoulders gave the semblance of the movement. "You should know as well as I do that you're only here because MI6 persuaded Scorpia to leave me alone. This is also the last place they'd ever send a strike team. After all-"

Alex turned his head to sneer at the contract killer, "After all, aren't you meant to be able to look after yourself? No need to run to children for cover, is there?"

Gregorovich's hands tightened their clasp behind his back momentarily. He'd forgotten how irritating the youth could be. Alex would likely be even worse than an ordinary seventeen year old – he had four years of bitterness against the authorities welling up inside of him.

Reasonable cause for hatred, Gregorovich supposed. Alex was a child well versed in receiving almost anything he could desire, as so many Western children are, and then, at the tender age of fourteen, he had all of this torn away and replaced with stark duty. It must have been a shock to the system.

Gregorovich could sympathise with his bitterness. His own childhood had been steadily miserly, the same as the lives of so many of his destitute fellow countrymen. Yassen had been blessed beyond measure with fortitude for the most secret of arts. Never had he been forced to work for his miserable nation – no, he had been sponsored by international groups, rewarded for his efforts with enormous cash incentive, and gifted the one thing any true trainee in the arts could desire – an opportunity to learn from the most renowned and capable master assassin in the world – John Rider.

John Rider had saved his life innumerable times. Thrown his own flesh into the path of bullets meant for his young trainee, snapped the necks of could-be friends, would-be murderers.

Even in those early days, opposing groups and governments had seen the potential in Yassen, and his position under the wing of John Rider only made his eradication a more desperate priority. Yassen was a threat to world security before he left the care of the Scorpia Training School at the tender age of nineteen. He'd been the youngest fully fledged assassin in the world, and had been appropriately revered and scouted for work because of it.

But no matter how many targets he killed, no matter how large the nine digit number in his Swiss bank account swelled – he still felt in the back of his mind a small itching spark. It was a tingle of guilt, of pain, of love, of desperate loneliness.

Yassen thoughtfully twisted the golden promise ring on his right hand ring finger.

He'd taken it from a target mere weeks after John had been killed, slipped it on and sentimentally left it there. In a pinch he could always pawn it.

His mouth almost quirked at the memory of a similar situation he'd found himself in once. He'd unfortunately dropped into a New Mexico lake whilst clambering about the undercarriage of a private jet.

Soaked to the bone and stuck in a town where they didn't take credit, he'd robbed the town's dusty pawn shop whilst he convinced the toad of a shop woman of the limitless value of the Indian arrowhead that had cut open his foot as he'd dragged himself out of the stony lake bed.

It wasn't that he'd ever thought of John as his own. Their sexual encounters had been few and far between. But what it came down to was that John had given him more than fleeting pleasure. He'd taught him to be the best, he'd extended his life, and of all the people Yassen had ever become entangled with – John had been the safest, the man who he had trusted not to stab him in the back whilst he slept unclothed and vulnerable.

John had been a rare friend in a world of assassins.

And now with John dead, Yassen couldn't think of a more deserving person, but his lover's beautiful son, to receive his undying loyalty.

He shut the door firmly, assessing the firm inset lock in the frame. Nothing short of a diamond saw would be getting through this door.

Alex had already disappeared into the bowels of the house. Yassen could hear him making snide remarks to himself around the bend of the corridor. He picked up his duffel bag – more of a prop than anything else – it just looked suspicious not to be carrying luggage on flights these days, and pursued the boy down the hall, satisfactorily resigned to catching up with the three year jump Alex in the shortest time possible.

Alex was leaning against a door, feigned the sleep of the deeply bored. Yassen dropped his bag before him. It landed with a soft rustle on the thick shag carpeting. Alex became aware that the footfalls behind him had ceased, and he squinted through half shut eyes to see what it was that had delayed the assassin.

Twilight had fallen and this hall, central to the house, with no windows and its multiple closed doors, was dim. Alex had to strain his eyes in the half-light to make out the older man's features.

Yassen was measuring him up with his eyes. "You remind me of your father" he said, as deadpan as always. "He was a beautiful man. Honest and honourable. Deadly."

Alex's mouth dropped open, and he couldn't think what to say. Instead he gaped, bewildered as the assassin caught up with deliberately heavy steps, each plant of a boot in the carpet conveying the full weight of Gregorovich's intent.

The man leaned over Alex slowly, his lean frame effectively blotting out any light filtering in from the sitting room. Gregorovich gave the boy a push against the solid door and mused softly into his ear.

"I have been hoping that the next model might be an upgrade."

"What are you--?"

Alex could only look on in shock, eyes glued to Gregorovich's long elegant hands as they grazed down his sides, falling to the fastening of his trousers. Yassen unzipped the fly of Alex's dark jeans carefully.

"There is no shame, you realise, Alex." He tugged the denim lower, let it droop around the boy's calves, anchored there by the shoes he was still wearing.

Yassen stooped to rest on his knees. The joints clicked as he settled down. He leaned in, pressed his lips to the skin on the inside of Alex's thigh. Alex held his breath. Gregorovich bit down firmly, not breaking the skin – just enough to hurt a little. Alex jerked his leg to the side reflexively, letting go of a shuddering breath.

Yassen sat back again. He looked Alex up and down once more. The boy was still young, that was true. But Alex Rider was not a child.

He had not been a child since three years ago, when he was still fourteen years of age, and had barely killed more than three people. Yassen had killed fifty men and women before the age of twenty-one. He had killed them in cold blood most times, and had often seduced or befriended them beforehand. Alex and he were not the same by any stretch of the imagination. But they had seen the same world, bleak and filled with death and duty.

Alex pressed the line of his back against the wall. His eyes were fixed on Yassen, wide, suspicious, but also curious. Yassen could only suppose that Alex was searching his memory for previous encounters with the assassin. Trying to remember whether the man had ever expressed any precedent for this desire.

Yassen supposed that he had been taken aback at meeting the boy in Cornwall, whilst working alongside Herod Sayle. It was as if John Rider had reappeared, many years younger, of course, but still possessing that same determination and spirit. That blond hair that John had never worn as long, and those eyes - flints. The boy was the spitting image of his father, and Yassen had known immediately who he had to be – and that he would have to at least speak with the boy, even if he couldn't take comfort in the familiar features.

Lapping and mouthing leisurely at the swollen head of Alex's cock proved rewarding. Alex let out a soft whimper, and began to slip down the smooth wooden surface behind him, legs shaking at the sensation of Yassen's hot tongue curled around his length.

"N-no." he protested weakly, contradicting himself by bucking softly into Yassen's generous mouth. His fingers scrabbled for a grip on the doorframe, the wallpaper, anything. One hand found the doorknob beside him and engaged in a white knuckled death grip around it.

That, and Yassen's right hand, wrapped around the back of his bare thighs, keep him from crumpling to the floor, balanced on the brink of release, crying out involuntarily whenever Yassen's hand left off its careful mapping of the underside of his cock and the full expanse of his painfully tightening balls.

Yassen let Alex alone for a moment, still rubbing teasingly between his legs. "No?" he asked. One finger ran back, teasing at his entrance. Alex let his eyes shut, head rolling back, just about abandoning his entire body weight to the curve of Yassen's arm. His legs parted wider, surrendering all control. Yassen bit back a chuckle.

"I won't, you know," he told Alex.

Alex drew in a shuddering breath, "w-what?"

Despite his lust glazed eyes, softly wavering mouth, and wet cock, Alex was threatening to look a little put out, seeing as he'd been so thoroughly coaxed into putting out.

"Don't worry, I'm not cutting this short," Yassen reassured him with a smirk. "But you don't have to fuck me just because I'm sucking you off."

"Oh-kay." Alex answered, groggily confused.

Yassen dragged his shoes and pants off, _finally_, and stood up, pulling Alex from his sagging splayed position across the hardwood door.

"Up." Yassen commanded. Alex obeyed all too willingly, and swayed a little in place as Yassen fumbled his own pants open, pulling the zipper down slowly over a sizable bulge in his jeans. Alex could only watch with almost dizzily awed eyes as Yassen freed his own dick. It was reddened, fat and firm with arousal. Yassen's eyes slid shut with blind pleasure as he lifted the heavy organ, stroking himself to full hardness with a couple of pumps of his hand. Finally, he pushed his fly open as wide as it would part and pressed up against Alex.

He kissed him viciously, forcing Alex's mouth open, pulling his body close enough to rub their erections together roughly.

"What are you, ten years older than me?" Alex gasped, tearing away from Yassen's mouth.

"Twenty." Yassen muttered, and pressed Alex back into place against the wall.

Alex reeled for a moment in shock, staring past the close proximity of Yassen's tilted face. The man kissed with his eyes open, and Alex tried to avoid them, to ignore that the cold blue irises had become half lidded in arousal. Yassen's fine hands came up to cup his face, and his thumbs sank into Alex's temples.

Alex was afraid for a moment that Yassen would finally kill him, crush his skull with practiced killing hands – but he was incorrect. Yassen pressed his temples – but gently, with a circular motion. Alex couldn't help but let his eyes slip shut. The hands slipped through Alex's hair, came to rub firmly behind the ridges of bone behind his ears. Alex melted like butter.

Yassen rode up against him over and over. The door behind Alex rattled. He let Yassen take his arm, wrap them around the assassin, fingers locking to the point of cramping around the soft red hair at the nape of his neck.

His leg rubbed against Yassen's clothed one, and he was eventually lifted, hastily, back slamming back against the door, to settle with his legs wrapped around Yassen's waist. He bit into the flesh of his shoulder, muffling grunts as Yassen pounded him viciously against the wall, demanding the roughest of friction between them.

Alex came, short and spurting between their bellies. He fell slack, undulating with Yassen's still grinding hips, letting the older man get off in the hot messy slide of their sharp hips. Finally, he spilled over Alex's stomach, pinning him heavily against the wood as he caught his breath.

Alex's legs slipped from their position locked behind Yassen's backside. Come dripped from the concave of Alex's stomach now that he was vertical, coating his upper thighs.

Yassen tucked himself back into his pants, forehead resting against the cool door, alongside Alex's sweaty haired head. He laughed in huffs, under his breath, reaching down to use the hem of Alex's shirt as a makeshift cloth, wiping at his come saturated abdomen with amusement.

"So," Alex said hoarsely, joining Yassen in the pathetic attempt at cleanup, "so this behind me here, this is your room."

"Twenty years," he was reminded with a grin. "Just give me half an hour to catch up, and you can show me the better side of the bed."

Alex punched him weakly. "As if I'd let you catch me unawares again."

"Sure..." Yassen drawled, dragging his forgotten bag into the dark room. "Do you have a bathroom? Exactly how strong are your cabinets?"

_Fin._

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Please, if you'd like to participate in an active and ridiculously cracky Alex Rider slash community, you can find us at livejournal. There's a link in my bio, or you can search for us in the interests. (You can google it.) See you there!


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